


i have loved you since we were eighteen;

by captainchicago



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Male Character, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainchicago/pseuds/captainchicago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"please don't seduce me. speak the words that drag me to my knees and force my pretty mouth to surrender." </p><p>against all odds, connor mcdavid and jack eichel are in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i have loved you since we were eighteen;

**Author's Note:**

> title stolen shamelessly from a one direction song, judge me, i dare you. also, i have literally no idea what this is, besides the fact that I have way too many feelings about mceichel, and this was a thing that happened. it's not poetry, it's prose, aka "weird writing that doesn't sound like regular fic," so bare with me. unbeta'd and barely edited, but i hope you like this like i do. let me know!

Connor McDavid fucks like he plays. 

He skates lithely and quick, intense and fleeting, teasing, drawing the linesmen out of their zone, luring them in. The sound of blades against ice, a razor sharp smile just before he checks someone into the boards, slams into them without any warning, skates away with a glance over his shoulder like nothing happened. He and Jack balance each other out in this aspect: he prefers to sneak up on his opponent and surprise the hell out of them; for Jack, taking risks doesn't scare him, he loves the rush of doing something new, discovering what makes people tick and exploiting it, over and over. 

He kisses like its a shot, a delicate flick of the wrist-soft at first, light and unsure, careful, like he's a rookie all over again. Soon it becomes more fast paced, more devious-he nips at Jack's bottom lip until it's swollen, kisses him in every place he can reach, everywhere, anywhere. His hands are just as talented when they are gripped in Jack's shirt or yanking on Jack's hair as they are holding onto a hockey stick. 

Connor's game is sweat and grit and muttered curse words under his breath, slamming the rink door shut in frustration, staying until twelve am, working until his shot is perfect, until every puck goes in just the way he wants it to. The sound of his helmet hitting the back of his stall in the locker room shatters the silence, the way he tears his pads off is full of tension and the pressure to be better, better _always_ , to be the best. Nothing is ever quite enough. Both of them will do whatever it takes to win, but Connor knows he takes things more seriously. Jack tells him so almost every time they meet, does his best to try and calm Connor down, but he's always been this way, he doesn't know how to be different. 

He's a hockey player. It's in their blood to show off, to not only score, but to score _beautifully._ To leave the audience in awe, wanting more. He's seen the highlights on ESPN. He knows what he looks like after a perfectly executed play, knows what people (maybe even his teammates) think when he licks his lips and pumps his fist after a goal, when he slides his helmet off and his hair sticks to his face. He never tires of the feeling, can't get enough of watching the puck hit the back of the net, doesn't care if the whole world is watching him, he knows they already are. 

There have been too many times where people tell him he's "too quiet" or "too withdrawn" on camera and he smiles at that, because if only they knew what he was like when he isn't surrounded by people. Jack gets this look on his face when Connor starts to ramble sometimes in bed, when words fall out of his mouth like he's been bewitched; he remembers it in flashes, coupled with the memory of Jack chanting his name, pressing kisses like brands on his skin. He can't shut up, that's for sure, part of him chirping at Jack, the other spewing nonsensical words, trying to tell Jack what he's feeling besides everything all at once. 

Connor McDavid fucks like he _wins_.

The clock is tick, tick, ticking down, his heart is hammering away in his chest, each muscle in his body aches as he gives every single piece of himself to the game, to his team, to Jack. Connor wins with a red face and a look of astonishment in his eyes. He bites his lip more than necessary, stares at the scoreboard like he can't believe it's real, swallows hard when he realizes he _did that_ , he scored, he won, the trophy is his when the night is over. The crowd is roaring in his ears and the lights are bright, always so bright, but the energy in the building is palpable, crackling underneath his skin, and that feeling is what he lives for. 

It can be harsh and loud and vocal sometimes, if they're feeling a little keyed up, if they need to blow off some steam against each other. Connor suspects Jack likes that best-they both have a hard time leaving their competitiveness at the door. But it can also be discreet and smug, when Connor wraps his lips around his Gatorade at practice like he knows Jack will watch the videos later, and when Jack mentions him to the media with no reason to at all, knowing it'll get back to him. Sometimes Connor gets this feeling in the pit of his stomach, uneasy, like he knows that wherever Jack is right now, someone is looking at him with the same lust that Connor feels sometimes, uncontrollable, and it drives him crazy, knowing he can't be there all the time. He trusts Jack, maybe more than anyone else in the world, but he cannot stand anyone else looking at him in that way. That feeling drives their next interaction, with Connor biting and sucking at Jack's skin more than ever, and Jack just lets it happen, lets himself be drawn into Connor's fervor. Connor's movements are quick and shaky, his pupils dilated in panic, almost. Jack lets him exhaust himself, until Connor's breathing turns ragged and hollow purple circles appear under his eyes. He looks young and desperate to Jack, who swallows hard, and looks Connor in the eyes. "Are you done?" Jack asks him, and Connor falls back against the pillows, surveying his work with lidded eyes. The yes goes unspoken, and Jack gathers Connor into his arms. They both need this sometimes, he understands. Tomorrow is another day. 

Connor McDavid makes love like he plays. 

Watching him warm up in sweeping, wide circles around the rink, eyes drifting shut, stick held lightly in his hand. He rolls his shoulders, stretches every muscle, takes deep, calming breaths. There is a small, easygoing smile on his lips. Occasionally he laughs, accompanied by a flash of his white teeth, his dimples make themselves known. The chatter before games is lighthearted and kind, his soothing voice echoing through the locker room, a familiar, bright sound. He has the ability to be gentle, to let the hard edges fade away and become soft, just a kid wanting to play professional hockey, not the savior of a franchise or arguably the best player of the post-Sidney Cosby era. It can be seen off the ice on early mornings when there are no practices, and Connor Facetimes Jack at 8am, late for both of them. Connor knows Jack won't be awake, but sleepy Jack is one of his favorite versions of him, and it's worth Jack swearing at him for waking him up. On the ice it can be glimpsed, too. Sometimes he gives away game pucks when he isn't supposed to, sliding them into his uniform to give to a little kid behind the glass, or when he gives a rookie a knowing smile, telling them that he feels it too, that pressure they all face. It's important to him that they know they aren't alone in this, even if it's not technically his job. Yet. Next on his list is becoming the youngest captain in the NHL, though time is running out for that. 

Connor notices something interesting about Jack, and the many things he calls Connor: 

McDavid, and that means they're teasing, that Connor has that look in his eyes like he needs a challenge, something to sink his teeth into. McDavid, and Jack crowds him into the nearest small space, a corner, a closet, behind a doorway if they're desperate-and-uses his size to his complete advantage, getting into Connor's space, dragging him out of his head and getting him to unwind, relax. 

The Face of the NHL, which means that there are cameras nearby and Connor needs to relax, but Jack can't do much besides give Connor a few bright smiles, brush his knuckles against Connor's hand when they aren't looking. It's hard being so close yet so far apart, when they're standing right next to each other on the top of the world but holding hands could take that all away from them. He says it like a joke because the media says it like its a burden, and Connor doesn't deserve that, just like no first pick does. It makes things a little better, but the tension still builds up in Connor, Jack can see it, the way his posture gets stiffer and his laughter gets more forced as the time drags on. 

Rookie, but they don't get to use that as much now. Connor misses less and less everyday, practically never falls over his feet unless Jack trips him, which he does. Rookie, Jack says, quiet and affectionate, when Connor forgets his water bottle in the locker room while they scrimmage and Jack is the one who goes back to get it. 

Con, Connor, he hears in a sleep thick voice that he wakes up to on lucky days during the offseason, when they're not separated by borders and team colors and contracts. Jack mutters his name against his skin, feather light in his most sensitive places, and Connor could lay here all day, draped in Jack's gaze. It's kind of funny, the way that Jack looks at him. Connor can imagine a few reasons why people would assume that they hate each other, it was even true, at first, but here and now, things couldn't be more different. Sometimes he wishes that they could tell the whole world the truth, and he tells Jack as much. Jack gets this hard, determined look in his eyes as he holds Connor and tells him they will, they _will,_ and Connor can't help but believe it, just like everything else Jack tells him. The dreams he has aren't rainbow colored, not exactly, though he realizes the significance their coming out would have to the League and the entire sports world. It would certainly spur things forward, but mostly he just wants to be able to hold Jack's hand in public, he wants to post photos on Instagram of them on cheesy dates like the rest of his linemates do. Someday, the two of them will get there, he knows it. In the meantime he lets the headlines of "Jack Eichel's new girlfriend?" pass by without comment, though sometimes he wants to keep them in a folder and send them to Jack when he's feeling particularly jealous. (He has the folder, he just doesn't send it.) He knows Jack has been with girls before, and that's fine, because so has he, and even if he never was, that's not a place for him to judge. 

He hears from all the veterans to keep his eyes on his goals, keep his eyes on the Cup, not to get distracted by the money (and the fancy cars, the thousand dollar suits that all follow) because it won't be like this forever. The truth is, though, that nothing matters without Jack, winning the Cup wouldn't be the same if he couldn't get to celebrate it with him. He chalks it up to a lack of understanding-they've never been in love this way, maybe no one has, Connor thinks, teenage love cliches be damned. When they're together, its like two pieces from very different puzzles fitting together perfectly. It shouldn't make sense but it does, and Connor will never, ever regret everything he's given to Jack, even if someday they're apart. 

"I love you," Connor blurts out one day, the first one to say it, because of course he is. 

The day isn't anything special, really. It's the end of the summer and Jack will be leaving soon, off to play away from him and even _against_ him, and Connor feels like he needs to know. 

"I know," Jack replies simply, turning to Connor, and it's not like any of the romantic fantasies Connor had, but its them, and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> should i do more like this? let me know.  
> http://captainchicago.tumblr.com


End file.
